


Come the Dawn

by snowpuppies



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more to Dawn than meets the eye. She'll realize her potential, whether she means to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Gabrielle](http://velvetwhip.livejournal.com/).

  


 

  
_In the beginning, she is denied nothing._

_She slips through dimensions like water, flowing easily from one to another; a series of connected moments in time and space._

_The universe is her playground._

_There are so many forms of life—gods and insects, humans and demons, snakes and morlank'a'as and butterflies—and she knows them all, sees them all…_

_…**is** them all._

_But then one day, she is caught; trapped, bound by magics that harness her essence, the energy that allows her to travel at will._

_And there is no more slipping._

_It's terrifying._

_She strains against the magic, pulsing wildly, crackling in anger and fear. There are voices—human voices—and although she speaks no human language, she understands the need, the fear of the men in brown cloaks._

_Each world is a rapture unto itself, but they must not mix._

_It must be done, but she cannot bear to give up herself, to become **less**, even to save a realm she's visited many times. So she fights against the pull of the voices, crying out to the god-kings and the elements and the Beginning, but the bonds wrap tighter._

_And as she begins to shrink, she makes a vow: she **will** become less, she will accept this leash, this collar, this cage; but when the time is right, she will throw off her fetters, slipping the noose from her neck and loosing what has been bound._

_She will not be contained forever._

_And with a great cry, she falls…_

_…into the body of a girl._

 

***

 

He says she has a soul, but she has her doubts. She's not entirely sure where she came from, but somehow she knows that something is missing.

She wonders if Buffy would still have jumped if she knew.

But Buffy's gone, and so is Mom, and Spike's the only one left for her. The Scoobies are around, of course, but mostly they make her feel like a toy, put away in the cupboard when not in use. She's trapped in a loop of expectation and grief, caught between childhood and womanhood, snared by the weight of Buffy's memory.

She looks at Spike—eyes straying to the back of his head, where his own harness sits, curbing his behavior, re-writing his identity—and thinks he might feel a bit of the same.

It's why she only relaxes when he's around, head slumping onto his cool shoulder, ear pressed against his unbeating heart as they both stare at the television without watching. They're two of a kind, she and Spike, not quite evil, but not really good, either, and she imagines the way things will be someday, living in a world of grey, just the two of them.

It can't be any other way.

She sighs; she can feel his fingers, gently combing through her hair. She can almost imagine how they'd feel against her skin.

Glancing up, she catches his gaze and feels drawn in, like the perch she'd caught when she was eight and her dad took her fishing for the first and only time, except that memory isn't real, but _this_ is, and she's struck by inevitability as she moves closer.

He jerks away when the door opens…

 

…and Buffy stumbles in, covered in dirt from her own grave.

 

***

 

They're having sex.

She knows from the very start, of course; neither one _quite_ meets her eyes when talking to her, and when they're in the same room, he can't take his eyes off _her_, and _she_ pretends he doesn't exist.

She tries not to let it bother her—it's to be expected, in a way, that the Slayer of Slayers would be drawn to one, the one he can't seem to kill—but the ache inside grows with every love bite Buffy doesn't hide soon enough, every night she hears the tell-tale clomp of Buffy's feet on the stairwell in the middle of the night, every time that smirk crosses Spike's face.

But it isn't permanent—she knows it deep in her gut, the same way she knew that bananas would be good on pizza and that Xander and Anya wouldn't get married—and she is patient.

She's no match for a Slayer, she knows that well, but in the end, the flame of their passion will burn out, and when the air cools, she'll sift through the ashes and claim what's hers—what has always _been_ hers…

She can wait; what are a few months, or even years, to someone who is older than dirt?

So she does.

 

***

 

It doesn’t take long.

 

There's no announcement; just Buffy walking through the front door, crossing the space between them, and wrapping her arms around Dawn like it's been months since they've last met.

It's been about an hour and a half.

But Dawn returns the hug, less out of love for her sister—although she does…love Buffy, that is—and more out of relief that it's finally…_finally_ time.

When Buffy sighs, withdrawing from the hug and wandering to the kitchen for a glass of apple juice, Dawn turns and goes up the stairs and into her room.

She shuts the door behind her.

Kneeling next to the bed, she draws a box—that once held the boots Buffy got from Mom for Christmas…the _last_ Christmas—from beneath the bed, smoothing the material of the bed skirt and placing the box carefully on the mattress. She lifts the lid for only a moment, glancing to see that the contents are still as she left them, before shutting the box again and crossing to the closet.

Selecting an outfit, she places it on the bed. There's a tag dangling from the hem of a short red skirt; with a quick jerk, she removes it, dropping it in the trash can.

Mascara: black. Lipstick: red. She wriggles out of and into her clothes, leaving her jeans and Hello Kitty tee shirt on the floor, smoothing her skirt and buttoning the fitted top. The pink cotton panties join the price tag in the waste bin.

She glances in the mirror, a slow smile stretching across her face; it's past time.

Tucking the box under her arm, she leaves the room.

 

***

 

His crypt looks like a war zone. Rubble is strewn about the upper level, and a thin film of sticky black ash covers…_everything_.

She doesn't care.

Pulling an object from her box, she tucks it into her skirt and climbs down. He's sitting in the middle of the chaos, bare-chested and rumpled and covered in soot.

"Not the time, Bit."

"It's the perfect time." She doesn't know how she knows this, but…she does.

"Look, just lea—"

He slumps over into the rubble and she tucks the tazer back into her skirt.

She'd intended to tie him to a chair, but a) any furniture on this level of Spike's crypt is shredded to bits and more than a bit toasty and b) Spike's way heavier than he looks, especially as dead weight, so, after many minutes of grueling effort—panting and grunting and swearing—she drags him to the wall and fastens him to a thick lead pipe, wrapping him up in rope like a vampire burrito.

She perches on his lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, and plays with his oddly textured hair while she waits for him to wake up.

"Wha? Huh? Unh." He blinks hazily, muttering a bit as he shakes off his daze.

Her heart skips a beat; she presses a kiss to that sharp cheekbone.

"Nibblet, don't. You can't. We can't," he protests, turning his head to the side to avoid her lips.

She leans closer, letting her warm breath puff against his neck before whispering, "Bullshit."

"'S'not." He turns to face her, scowling. His eyes try to look angry, but she sees fear instead. "'S wrong."

"Nope." She nibbles on his lips, hiding her grin when he gives a little grunt and his tongue flickers out to soothe the hurt. A hand slides down his chest—a shame about all the rope, really, but the important parts are uncovered—and finds the button of his jeans.

She pops it open.

"Bit. Stop it."

"No." She licks at his lips, playfully, as the zipper in his trousers is lowered, notch-by-notch. His mouth says 'no', but his body is very definitely saying 'yes', and with a twist of her wrist, her hand slides into his jeans. He jerks in her hand and something low in her abdomen twinges in excitement.

"Now this isn't on, Pet. Don't… Don’t do this."

Her eyes flicker to meet his and she licks her lips at the hunger he's not concealing very well. "This is right." She's never been more sure of it, and the twinges low in her belly have moved even lower, and now the flesh between her legs feels strange, warm and swollen and almost-itchy, and she squirms, pressing herself against his denim-covered thigh. He groans, loudly, and she tugs at his fly, ripping it open and pulling out his cock.

It's…different than she'd expected, somehow. Maybe because it's not different at all. She's seen pictures, of course, in health class and in some of the magazines she purchased—for only a small markup—from Anya, but Spike's a vampire and she'd thought it might be…different, somehow.

It isn't.

Still, it makes the warm place between her legs twitch, and as her fingers skate lightly down the thick length, Spike twitches, too.

Rising to her knees, she lifts the hem of her skirt, exposing herself to Spike's gaze. She smirks a bit when his jaw drops, but doesn't stop moving, crawling up his body until she's just situated, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other steadying herself against his shoulder and she begins to sink.

"Dawn." She meets his eyes, frozen in place, the head of his cock just kissing the wet, slippery skin of her pussy. "Are you…? Really?"

Eyes flickering shut, she leans forward and says—"yes"—into his mouth as she captures his lips and sits down.

She winces, but keeps kissing—Spike's lips are cool and slightly chapped, but they soon become wonderfully slick and his tongue is flickering against her teeth, her palate, teasing her own tongue into a sinuous twirl—and keeps repeating to herself that this is _right_.

And it is.

Still hurts, though.

After a few moments, the pain lessens, and she shifts a little, gasping as she feels him _move_ inside. As she begins to rock against his groin, the teeth of his zipper grinding into the sensitive skin of her thighs, she realizes she's lost her virginity in a cemetery, knees bruised on the stone floor, covered in ash and soot and surrounded by heaps of trash and charred furniture, riding the prick that might have been inside her sister only hours ago.

It doesn't matter.

She's taking what's _hers_.

_Finally._

She begins to rock more firmly, lifting herself off Spike's lap, then dropping back, grunting with effort and sensation. He struggles against the ropes, hips jerking upwards with what little leverage he can find as her lips leave his mouth and find his neck. She licks at the strained muscle and tendon, nuzzling the space beneath his ear and behind his jaw.

And this awful-wonderful sort of tension is building in her belly, and her arms and legs are kinda numb and tingly and the sound of her breath echoes in the darkness as her fingers clench in Spike's hair and something sharp and bright travels up her spine, down her limbs, then rushes back to her cunt to ignite.

The room fills with a bright light and she can feel something inside seeping away, but he's there, filling in the cracks with _Spike_ and the world pulses as they mesh together. She screams, muffling the sound against his shoulder, and as another wave of pleasure begins to build and crash against her body, she sinks her teeth deeply into the tissue of his neck.

It's his turn to scream, and she sags as his hips jerk into her roughly, taking what he has to give and there's a great ripping noise, and suddenly arms are around her, pulling her close as he moans and collapses bonelessly against the wall.

When her heart finally slows its frantic pace, she glances up to his face; his eyes are wide with wonder as one long-fingered hand pokes at the back of his skull. In a moment, he notices her gaze and blinks.

"I think it's gone."

She thinks a moment and for some reason, believes he might be right. "Good."

His gaze softens and he pulls himself up, taking her mouth in a soft kiss, her name on his lips.

When he pulls away, there's sadness in his eyes. "Don't even have a bed to put you on. 'S'not…"—he sniffs, ducking his head—"Not what you deserve."

Something like a sigh flows through her body and she blinks…

 

…and they're in another place, entirely. It's clean and the stone floor is now thick carpet and there's a great big four poster bed with lush blankets and pillows and velvety drapes. Two overstuffed armchairs and a loveseat sit on the other side of the room near floor-length windows, shrouded by a pair of sheer, gauzy curtains.

It looks like a hotel.

"Well," he says, after surveying the new landscape, "this certainly fits the bill." She turns to look at him when his calloused fingers stroke her cheek. "You're something else, Dawn."

She wonders what he's talking about for a moment, but then it occurs to her that _she_ did this, and it felt as natural as breathing.

Her attention is drawn back to Spike as he begins unbuttoning her blouse, slowly parting the black fabric and exposing her skin to his gaze. His fingers brush against her shoulders as he pushes the material aside and reaches for her bra. She spills out into his hands, moaning as he gently squeezes, giving each breast a soft kiss before sliding his hands down her back, cupping her ass possessively before sliding to the zipper of her left boot. It slides off and he tickles the bottom of her foot, tugging at her littlest toe playfully as his other hand repeats the move with her right foot. Her skirt comes over her head as well—a little awkwardly—and then she's completely naked in his lap and he's looking at her and it makes her shiver.

And just as she decides it her turn to play undress-me-up dolly, he scoops her from the floor and carries her to the bed. She slides under the duvet as he slips out of his jeans and boots. She holds up a corner of the sheet in invitation.

They wrap around each other, skin against skin, body against body, and she feels as if the world is finally spinning again.

In moments, he goes completely still and in the quiet she examines the imprint of her teeth against his neck and knows it won't fade.

Pressing a kiss against the mark, she settles against his chest.

 

"Mine," she whispers into the night…

 

…and smiles.

 

***

 

_She floats, high above the world, in the midst of a softly glowing, green light._

_She feels strange, as if her whole body is pulsing, expanding and contracting with the flickering of the light._

_So strange, but so free._

_As if she can do anything, be anyone…_

_Perhaps…_

_…even herself._

 

 

_FIN_.

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/233564.html).


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